


Never on a Tuesday

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Feels, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Steve sounded off that exact to-the-day countdown to their four-year anniversary, Danny's been trying to figure out what, exactly, it all means. To him. To Steve. To them, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never on a Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> What started out as a little tag to 5.07, has grown to spoilers from 4.19 through 5.07 canon, with an added little 'head-canon' event that has Danny confused enough to dwell on it for, well, months.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy!

**Never on a Tuesday**

"So."

"So?" 

“So…that went well.”

“What went well?"

"Really? What do you think what, Danny? That."

"You mean in there? That? You think that went well?”

“Well, yeah, that. It went well. All good, like I said. We’re good.”

Steve’s looking at him like there’s no way they wouldn’t both be in agreement as to how that session went. Looking at him like he’s got to have two heads to even begin to think it wasn’t good, and part of Danny wonders if maybe he actually has grown a second head because sure as shit the current one he's using to look at Steve cannot even begin to fathom how it is Steve actually thinks that session with the psychologist went well.

“We’re good?” Danny shifts his pointer finger back and forth between them in a stirring the pot kind of way and thinks, well, isn’t that pretty fucking apropos. Pot-stirring. They’re quite expert at that with one another.

Still, their arguing is all mostly because Steve has control issues out the wazoo and Danny, well, he wouldn't necessarily label himself an obstreperous sort per se, but he will admit to perhaps indulging in a slight degree of inflexibility at times.

So yes, there are times they definitely don't mix well. Never mind how there are times he’d love them to mix well, not that it’s ever going to happen. Okay, there was that one time, one kiss and hell, yes, he's still stewing over that, damn it.

Jesus, wouldn't that psychologist just love to gnaw on that juicy tidbit? Almost makes him giggle thinking about it.

Thing is, though, Danny’s still gnawing on it himself, frankly. He can’t seem to _not_ think of Steve and his hands and lips and that face, those eyes. What it might actually feel like to be flesh-to-flesh, which used to freak him out a bit—that he has these thoughts—but now he’s pretty used to his brain flashing him a mental sex shot of the two of them now and again. It happens. He’s not going to make a big deal about it after all these years. Talk about stirring up quite the pot of trouble if he did.

It’s just the way it is between them. The way it’s been since that first day of Steve taking him to his knees followed by him swinging a right hook to Steve’s jaw, and they can't seem to shake out of it, these disparate views. It's the way it is; it's the way they are.

How funny in a most facetious way does Steve just assume that when he’d brought their therapy session to an abrupt halt by blurting out, “I think we’re good” to the psychologist, he actually assumed that everyone else also thought, yes, they really were all good. Good, done and finished. Steve McGarrett has spoken. Game over. Moving on.

Just like that one kiss.

Danny chuffs a laugh with a slight shake of his head. “We're good. Figures you would think so.”

And there it is, the McGarrett frown—complete with the vertical forehead crease that Danny's come to know so well and—bonus! He's getting it all wrapped up in that look of wounded irritation.

“I thought you thought so, too, Danny. That we were good. Ohana and all that; I mean, you did agree with me in there. You even smiled and god knows we both know that's a rare sighting.”

"Excuse me? I smile—I smile all the time!" Okay, maybe not all the time. But he does smile, for shit's sake.

Steve's talking right over him. "No, you know? I can't believe you. You agree with me in there, agree that we're good and now…" Still sending him that _you have two heads, are you really an alien?_ look… “And now all of a sudden you don’t think so.”

“I don’t think a lot of things, but that’s never been so much of a concern to you before.”

“Danny—“ 

Only Steve can snap out his name with such a mix of exasperation, frustration and annoyance while also somehow keeping it all glued together with affection. It's a gift, somehow.

Very similar to the way he’d breathed it—Danny's name—into that one kiss and Danny lets it—the current silence--ride for a few minutes while trying desperately not to dwell on the memory of Steve’s tongue filling his mouth, even if it had been there only a few seconds under a shit-ton of blown concrete, dust and extreme duress and all. 

A stress reliever kiss. Christ, is that what that had been?

Glances over at Steve to find him staring straight out the windshield, one hand like a vice around the steering wheel while the other is fisted in his lap. The man's jaw is tight and defined and Danny's pretty sure he can see a faint relief of grinding molars. 

It's going to be a long day.

So he sighs and sits back. Watches scenery pass in a blur. Stares at buildings, counts passers-by. Definitely does not conjure up Steve in any form of nakedness because given that they're apparently now not speaking to one another—oh yeah, that therapy session went just swimmingly—that would be just wrong.

Then, after the clock on the dash turns over yet another slow-as-molasses minute, he clears his throat because okay, yes, damn it. He's breaking. The silence is getting to him and he brushes away a non-visible thread of lint and breathes out his own, "So."

"So?"

Yeah, so. So a lot of things, Danny thinks while doing his best to push that kiss memory right on out the window. With a glance he can tell that he's not the only one still ruminating over what just happened in the therapist's office, but he's not sure Steve's chewing on the same thing that's been working his own mind these past several months. Still…

"So, okay. Yes. We're good," he tells him. Who says he's not a giving person?

Steve's gracing him with earnest face now. Danny loves that one. It has a nice smile. "Yeah? We’re Good?"

"Good. Yeah." Whatever. He can hand wave it for now and Steve sounds so relieved and looks all happy now to know they really are okay that it makes him smile, too. What the hell, he also feeds squirrels back home. "Sure. We're good, Steven, but—"

"But?"

A pause, then, because somehow that kiss just got thrown right back at him and he's losing his shit along with his courage, so stalls with, "Oh, no. Nothing. No buts,” because this is harder than he thought and apparently he really is just a great big wuss when the true push comes to shove. He can’t bring it up. That kiss. Fuck. "I just, you know…"

“No,” Steve says. “I don’t know.”

Danny slides eyes to Steve then looks away. Constipation face has bled a little into earnest face, apparently. He can do this, right? It's only normal he'd be curious about what Steve said in there. “So—“

"So? Again so?" 

Okay. Here goes, because it’s got to mean something that Steve knew this—and the man kissed him not too long ago, for shit’s sake and then the 'I love you's' started and gee-sus. Not like he can so easily forget all that. "So, that was very exact of you back there, in that office. You know, precise." There. It's out.

Steve sends him a look, and Danny's pretty sure Steve now knows what he's talking about. Nods to himself because he really does need an answer.

Steve exhales a semi-laugh. "Well, that would be me. I'm a very exact, precise kind of guy who knows details."

Danny nods along. Fine. If Steve wants to take the long way 'round, he can play. "Yeah, okay. I can see that. I can see you having to be very precise in some SEAL-like instances, I'm sure. But this, see, this is pretty precisely particular…have I mentioned I'm a detective?"

A pause, then, "You may have…once or twice."

He totally ignores the sarcasm and massive eye-roll Steve throws at him, and continues on. "Uh-huh. And being a detective, I can tell you that noticing details are part and parcel of the whole package."

"Part and parcel." 

"Of the package. This package. Of being a detective. Details, the minutia of things can be important."

"Minutia."

"Can be very important."

The sigh-almost-groan Steve releases makes Danny smile.

"What the hell are you getting at, Danny?"

Steve turns to look at him full on and okay, this isn't quite riding the rail of where he wanted to roll because he can now sense that Steve’s about to unload everything _he’s_ taken from the session, and he's pretty damn sure it's not anything he wants to visit.

"Seriously, Danny. All that, 'I don’t listen to you', crap back there. What, you don’t think I think what you have to say is important? You know that’s not true. You know I listen. All damn day, I'm listening to you. Oh! And by the way, I thought you liked me calling you Danno. As I recall—you know one of those detail type minutia things you were just ranting about—you said a few years ago, and I'm quoting here: 'I like it. Do it every day."

Now Steve's frowning and Danny's not at all sure there isn’t some measure of pouty-lip going on over there and damn, he'd rather have earnest face back. "No, see, that's incorrect. What I said way back when—which is, according to you, three years, eleven months and two days ago—was in reference to your now habitual use of 'Book 'em, Danno.' Not the Danno in general."

There's a long pause wherein Steve continues to shift eyes from the road to him. Road. Him. Then the man scoffs and throws out a hand. "Really. And you're just telling me now? I've been calling you Danno for years and you're just _now_ decided it bothers you enough to bring it up as being a major issue?"

"Well, it doesn't exactly bother me, it's just—"

"Oh, really? Because that's not what I heard you tell Dr. Whatshername in there—I even got the finger point from you about how much it does bother you. You told her you don’t like it."

"I don't…" which kind of guts him to say as it really isn't truly how he feels, and he's now especially gutted that he said it over the somewhat pained look Steve is giving him. "I don't exactly not like it—and by the way, you know that a psychiatrist is a medical doctor but a psychologist is not and would you watch the damn road, please?"

"Okay. What is it? What are we talking about here, Danny, huh? You're clearly annoyed with me enough to have us hauled into having this therapy session together. You must've said something in your private session to cause all of this."

"What, so this is my fault?"

Steve's laughing and there's nothing either of them are finding funny and Danny kind of wants to hit him. 

"Of course it's your fault, Danny. You obviously told her there are issues between us that prompted her to want us in there together."

"I told you this already, did I not? I believe I did, and all I said to her was that we have communication issues…some of the time."

"Uh-huh. You mean you think _I_ have issues."

"Did I say that? I didn't say that…but now that you've said it, well, yeah. Yes. I do. Wanna know why? Because you do!" Which isn't really all that true anymore, either, and the minute Danny blasts those words out loud he regrets them which then sparks a little self-irritation. "Which brings up another point I have, Steven. Why, after the conversation we just had in there, why are you _still_ driving my car?"

Steve just looks at him. "Why are you letting me?"

'I—" Danny sits back because somehow his head is reeling a bit. "I don't know." Gives a half effort hand wave even for him, and, really, does this mean he's now completely given up and resigned? No, it's just…it's just after so many years—three and eleven months and two days, to be exact, and Steve still hasn’t said why he has that committed to memory and that was the whole point of him starting this dialogue in the first place: why does Steve have their anniversary date down to the exact day—it's become routine for him to toss his keys to Steve given the man doesn’t already have them shoved down into one of his pockets.

It's a habit. A comfort. It's just the way it is between them.

Oh, god. It just so is.

**

Three years, eleven months and five days closer to their anniversary—three days since they were sitting in the therapist's office and Steve blurted out that precise date—and Danny still can't find it in himself to bring it up again.

It shouldn’t be this big a deal. It shouldn't be this difficult to just casually say, "So, Steve. About you keeping track of the anniversary of the day we met." But he can't. It shouldn't matter this much to him this much—but it does, and that's why he keeps stumbling over himself and not saying anything.

For almost four years they've pretty much been in each other's pocket having survived gunshots, stabbings, kidnappings, more near-misses than Danny even cares to remember, dead mothers, pseudo-girlfriends, terrorists, bombs, 'I-love-yous' and one very brief but pretty spectacular kiss that clearly means nothing to Steve but is all Danny can dwell on these days and goddamn it, he wasn't going to let it affect him this way.

Told himself that it was a fluke moment, that kiss. A quick blast of complete insanity when neither of them were thinking and emotions were high because of events and fuck it, it was just a quick, wham, bam, thank you Dan, we're-still-alive-about-to-be-rescued celebratory kiss. That is all it was. That is all it is.

It didn't mean anything. He knows that. He knew that when it happened. How? Because Steve had said so.

"That, that was—" Danny remembers managing to choke out like a blithering idiot, one hand wiping away the wet on his mouth from Steve's mouth and feeling incredibly lightheaded from the blood loss and all anyway which made gathering any coherent thoughts just so very not in the cards at that precise post tongue-in-mouth moment.

"Was not what I intended to do—didn't mean anything," Steve had followed up with right after, finishing Danny's question before it even got asked and both of them looking at one another with enough shock that it was clear neither of them had totally expected the intensity of that micro second blastlet of insanity.

"Right," Danny had agreed.

And what the fucking fuck, anyway?

They'd been laughing after realizing they were actually going to get the hell out of, well, Hell. Danny had been feeling dizzy from blood loss and half about to pass out at any moment, anyway, so when Steve helped him get into the harness to freedom, when Steve had reached around to make sure the belts were secure, they'd ended up face-to-face, almost lip-to-lip, sharing the same air space, and it had just…happened. Covered in sweat and grime and blood and dust and reeling from adrenaline, they'd kissed. Deep and passionate and like nothing he'd ever experienced. At least that's what Danny had felt. 

After the 'I love you's' that still ring in his ears to this day, and then that kiss…well, it's all been something Danny can't get out of his head, even so many months after.

Steve had pretty much blown off Catherine once they were up and out, Danny'd watched most of that exchange and it hadn't looked good, and all he'd wanted to do after finding Grace was find Steve. Find Steve and ask about this now spoken 'I love you' thing, and then again ask about that kiss. That kiss.

Even with Amber—his gorgeous and ridiculously too young not yet official but close to it girlfriend—standing there watching, and also knowing Catherine was still lingering somewhere waiting to take Steve home, he'd had to single Steve out to find out more. What it all meant…

And yet, he couldn't do it. Not right then. He was too sick, in too much pain and too close to feeling like losing the lunch he never got to eat that day. Steve had stood there, looking half-stricken and forcing Danny to actually say those words out loud, 'I love you, too', and it just didn't feel like the right time to bring up that kiss. To push for more.

Now enough time has passed that it's almost impossible and too weird to even touch base on it all again.

Now, he's just petrified.

**

Amber. She's, she is…

In her bikini and wearing a white plumeria blossom in her hair and nibbling on a pineapple spear, her favorite fruit, and she's gorgeous. She's funny. She's bright. She's charming.

"Hey? Are you listening at all, Jersey? Because you seem a million miles away."

He offers her a smile and pulls his eyes away from where Steve is crouched down with Grace, the two of them laughing as they study something on the sand.

"Nah, I'm right here," he says, but that's not exactly true, but he's not a million miles away, either. Just fifteen feet.

Amber's flashing her perfect smile as she's lying there on the beach towel facing him, and he's looking over her incredible curves, looking past her incredible curves—to watch Steve and his daughter.

She rolls over to sit up and he joins her, their shoulders barely touching as they sit side-by-side and gaze out over the water—as he gazes out at Steve and his baby. He can feel Amber studying him, but he's not sure what to say. Definitely there's heaviness in the air.

"This isn't really working, is it, Danny? Us, I mean."

He doesn't want this. She's good for him. Right? Anyone would love to be with this woman.

"I don't know." Meets her eyes and they share a long, silent look.

She nods a little to herself, watches Steve and Grace for a minute then starts to pack up her things.

"Amber—"

She's wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck, he can feel the warmth of her fingers as she threads them through his hair. "Hey. It's okay, Jersey. I gotta get goin' anyway." She's watching Steve and Grace again, then smiles as she turns to him. "You call me when you think you've figured it all out."

Bends down to leave him with a brush of her lips over his.

"Wait," he says and does his best to ignore the gnawing pit forming in his gut because he may not have everything figured out in his life or where it's going to go, but he's pretty sure about some things in the here and now. "I'll walk you to your car."

**

He and Steve always talk in the car. It's been their thing since day one, after he asked Steve--pretty much demanded, rather—that they not talk. Not speak. Laughs at the memory of Steve's asking, "What, now? or ever?"

May have actually been the first and last time he'd driven his own car with the two of them. 'Steve has to drive.' Carsick, his ass. Who ever heard of a SEAL with motion sickness, for shit's sake, and he silently laughs a bit over the memory of Steve trying to explain away his must-be-in-charge control issues.

Right now, though, on their way to work and it just feels too early. Too everything. He isn't sleeping all too well; there are visions of Steve usurping his brainwaves during the night and they're becoming a problem. A disturbing problem. He doesn't need to have visions of Steve usurping his brainwaves.

"You're awfully quiet this morning, Danno. Everything okay?"

He glances over. Steve's chuckling and then flashing his 'I care' eyes and it's not hard to miss the measure of concern lining the supposed lightness of question.

Still, he's tired and feeling pissy and irritable and really doesn't want to talk about him or Steve or Amber or any of anything at the moment. At least not before he's had coffee, anyway, and maybe, probably, not even after that happens.

"Everything's fine except I overslept and didn't have time for coffee." Which is entirely Steve's fault, even if Steve doesn't know.

Danny's trying to convince himself that everything is fine, even when it's not—and it's not most of the time these days. He's noticed, too, that the 'I love you's' between them have abated. Slacked off to the point of never, actually. It's been a while since either of them has tossed one out, and he misses it. terribly. How exactly does one bring that up as conversation?

"So you're fine?"

"Yes, fine. What, you don't believe me?" Hates at times that they can read each other so well. Then again, after three years, eleven months and he's not sure how many days now, may have lost one or two along the count he never kept, it shouldn't and doesn't surprise him they're so well versed in one another's vibes. Annoying as shit sometimes, frankly.

He's glad it's raining, and for the next fifteen minutes, at least, until the sun comes out again, it'll be gray and drizzly. Like his mood. This would have been a good day to stay in bed with the sheets drawn over his head.

"Just, Danny, you seem kinda down lately. Or preoccupied, or…I don’t know."

"Well, I guess I am preoccupied. We've got this nutjob running around taking pot shots at tourists, so yeah, I would say I'm preoccupied."

He can tell Steve's listening carefully to every word. And while he's sure Steve is asking more about what is going on with Amber—nothing anymore—and maybe asking about what's going on between them lately—nothing much there, either, and probably never will be—he really doesn't feel like getting into any of it now. With Steve.

"How's Catherine?" he asks rather pointedly because there are days he really and truly does like to torture himself in a masochistic kind of way. Nothing like wallowing in misery for a morning pick-me-up, and he sits back and prepares himself to hear Steve go on about missing her.

"Cath—she's alright, I guess. Texted me that she was, anyway. Like you said then, she can handle herself over there. Her choice." Steve says rather flatly, if Danny's hearing correctly.

He doesn't push it. There are some things he doesn't want to know about, and Steve and Catherine's relationship is definitely one of those things. He's pretty sure that feeling is mutual between him and Catherine as well. She always seems on guard around him, and definitely radiates and demonstrates a possessive aura around Steve if he or anyone else crosses whatever line there is that she perceives is too close—or not just anyone, now that he thinks on it, just other women. Him and women.

Still, if he were dating Steve he'd probably feel the same way. Steve just draws them in like flies.

"So you, you're okay, 'D'. Everything's good. You sure?"

"Why do you keep asking me that? Are you insinuating that I'm lying to you?"

"Lying—no! Why would you even—I'm just trying to talk. Make conversation. I swear, Danny, there are times I think it's anyone's guess how the hell you got along with your past partners."

"Well, I guess it's not too hard to figure when they all keep dying on me."

Stares directly at Steve's profile and yes, he realizes he's being a complete asshole at the moment, but doesn't even try to break the almost palpable disquiet that now fills the car. Like he said, he's just so not in the mood today.

"Let's go get you some coffee," Steve finally and very quietly says.

"Please," Danny agrees and nods.

 

**

"Danno?"

"Yeah, Monkey?"

There's nothing he cherishes more than a dark, quiet, rainy night with his little girl cuddled up next to him on the couch. The crappy pre-teen movie they're watching on TV, not so much.

"Danno, did you love anyone when you were my age?"

"Well, yeah. I loved Pop-pop and—"

"No, Danno. I mean anyone, y' know, special."

"Special. I'm not sure your grandparents are gonna be too happy that you don't think they're special."

Oh, god, he forgot this isn't just a movie. There's singing, too.

"Danno!"

"What? What are you asking? Is there a boy involved in this somehow?" Oh, please Lord, no. He can't do the boy thing yet.

"No. Maybe. Kinda. But…but you know what I mean, right? Special like…love."

"Special love."

"Yeah. Love like Mommy. Or Steve."

"Steve?" What?

"Yeah, Steve. When you were twelve, did you love anyone special, like Steve?"

"Well, I remember having a crush on Dottie Dinkus in sixth grade, but I can say I never loved Steve when I was twelve."

"Dottie Dinkus. That's hilarious."

"Yeah. She wasn't all that funny, though, as I recall. Nope. She was kinda mean, actually. Is this boy nice to you? You're not planning on running away and eloping, are you?"

"Yes, he's nice, and Danno, no! Besides, Mom says it's okay to like someone, but I can't date yet."

Boy, does that make his stomach flip. "You listen to your mother. She knows what she's talking about."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Singing and dancing now. God is this movie over yet?

"But you love Steve now, right?"

"Yeah, Monkey. I love him now."

**

Friday morning and he's feeling pretty good albeit a bit groggy. Headache's gone. He slept somewhat better than any other night the past week, never mind that he dosed himself on Nyquil to do it. 

Still, he doesn't feel like he just wants to hole himself up in his office and hide until it's time to go home, anymore.

There's a pineapple on his desk. Really. A big spiny pineapple just sitting there stinkin' up the room—not that he doesn't like pineapple. Contrary to popular belief, he actually likes it fine as long as it's not touching pizza, but he doesn't want one in his office. On his desk along with…

Flowers. Tropical flowers. A few plumeria, Amber's favorite. Birds of paradise, he knows those. And there are others that look like giant colorful hops, although they're not and how he knows what a hop even looks like he can't quite remember. Just knows they make beer out of 'em and god, right now he feels like he could use a beer, never even mind it's this early in the day.

Proton. Protop. Protozoa. Or no, no…something like that, though, and oh. A card.

"Hey."

Protea. Yeah. That's what they are, those flowers. Although they don't much look like any sort of flower he would recognize as even belonging to the flower genus. Protea, Steve had told him that's what they were at some point. Protea and other flowers and a pineapple that he really wishes weren't in his office. 

"Danny? You hear me?"

Turns to find Chin standing there staring at him and in turn then staring at the pineapple and flowers once he sees them. Chin points a swirling finger to encompass the entire tropical explosion. "So what is…"

"Not sure. I don't know…Amber, I think, maybe. Probably." Yeah, this is right up her alley, for sure. He quickly glances at the card that was tucked into the flowers _For you and me, side by side. Wouldn't have had it any other way. I love you_. before crumpling it in his hand and shoving it deeply into his pocket. Great. This is just full of exceptional greatness.

"Oh."

Yeah, Chin's not the type to pry, and Danny's grateful he doesn't have to explain as he's feeling guilty enough without having to have someone else point out what an idiot he must be to let her go. It's just, Amber's not what he wants. Who he wants.

"Wow." Of course Steve would be next to invade his space, grinning ear to ear as he surveys the entire picture because heaven forbid he doesn't get into the middle of everything that is Danny's life.

"Wow, nothing." Danny just so doesn’t want to get into this. He feels bad enough about breaking it off with Amber. Wishes she hadn't sent this stuff. Wishes she hadn't added the 'I love you' part, either.

Now he really feels like an uncaring schmuck. He broke it off nicely, though, right? He knows he did. They even laughed together. He was nice. Apparently too nice if she's sending him flowers.

"Nothing?" Steve looks a bit surprised. Taken aback. "It's not nothing."

"Well, it's nothing to me, not anything I want. So I'm donating them to…somewhere. Hospital, maybe. I'll figure it out, don't worry about it." He moves the fruit and flowers into an empty Xerox paper box and sets them on the floor, then boots up his computer and tries to dismiss the feeling of asshole-ness that's churning around in his heart.

Chin and Steve are still standing in the doorway, staring.

"Something else you need?"

Chin leaves and Steve remains.

"Yes?" Danny asks and he just wants to be left alone to wallow in his misery at the moment. Jesus, Steve, is it really necessary to know every bit of minutia? He's about to ask him exactly that when Steve mumbles out, "Guess not." and leaves.

"Didn't think so," he mumbles after them.

Damn it. Now, he's got a headache again.

 

**

Catherine's still gone. Danny didn't think that would happen. Ever.

In the back of his mind, he's been convinced she'd return home from Afghanistan within a few weeks, especially knowing Steve had been so very close to death. Convinced, too, that Steve would rush off to bring her back once he was up and moving again.

None of that happened, though, and Catherine's still gone.

Danny's glad in a way. Okay, in a lot of ways, not the least of which is his still very fresh, just so very fresh anger over the events that lead to Steve's near death by the Taliban. For that, he looks directly to Catherine…and to Steve's ingrained need to be everyone's goddamn hero. 

Here's a newsflash McGarrett: you can't save everyone on the planet. Even you are not that good.

Neither is he, Danny thinks. Can't save anyone—not even his own brother.

With a shake of his head to clear it, which seems a mountainous task any more, Danny turns off his computer because even though he's been trying to get some work done on this beautiful (and when isn't it beautiful? What he wouldn’t give for a cold, dreary, gray fall New Jersey day) Sunday, it's not happening. All he really keeps watching is the never-ending loop behind his eyes—the one that stars him and his brother. The one that has him pulling his weapon on Matt those years ago, letting him get on that plane and oh, god, why didn't he just shoot him in the leg? 

That would have stopped him. That would have prevented all of this from happening.  
Matt's missing. Kidnapped. Held for drug money.

Eighteen and a half million dollars. What the fucking fuck, Matt?

His hand hurts from hitting Reyes. His head aches.

Stares at the old postcard from Matt: 'Wish You Were Here'.

Time to start digging.

**

Of course Steve would offer to drop everything and come out to help him dig.

Of course he would. The man can't help himself. 

Danny wipes away the sweat and dirt and starts on another hole, irritation and worry and anger and desperation all blending together to fill him with enough strength and purpose to tear up the whole goddamn area.

What the hell was Matt thinking?

And Steve…always the hero. Always gotta be the goddamn hero, and how many times has that turned out well, his diving in to help.

None, that's how many. First Jenna. Then Catherine.

Nothing works out well. Nothing. 

Can't even make his own life work, either, except Grace, who's perfect.

Still, he loses everyone. Billy. Rachel. Gabby. Amber. Matt.

Now he's with no one. Alone.

Or, no. Steve's with him, and now that Catherine's really gone, Steve's alone, too.

They're alone together.

Great. They're an oxymoron.

Or just morons.

 

**

"Danny."

He rolls his head, and even through the almost pitch black of the tiny room can sense Steve staring at him. Can sense those eyes are filled with concern, even as he's feeling only half aware. Steve gave him something to sleep, calm down, but it's not working. Or only half-working and it doesn't matter anyway because, because . . .

Matt's dead. Matt's dead and in a barrel. A barrel that's waiting to be loaded onto a transport plane to get home like all the other crates and cargo.

Steve said they needed to just seal it to get Matty back to Max.  
Matty, meet Max. Max, meet Matty. My brother's in a barrel.

He starts to giggle.

"You okay, Danno?"

"Hmm?" Is he okay? Nooo, not really okay. Probably not, no.

"Danny. I know it's hard, but…try and sleep. We've got a few hours before we have to be up."

Steve got them in and out of Colombia on a cargo plane. Steve's got connections of indefinite proportions, apparently, and here he is—they are—about to head home for hours and hours and hours on yet another cargo plane. 

How many times has he ever been on any sort of military plane in his life—never—and now, over the past six months, he's flown transport in and out of places civilians should never be going. To get Steve. Who's been beaten and shot and beaten and bloody. Bleeding. Steve is always bleeding.

Only he's the one bleeding this time. On the inside.

"You need to try and get some rest, D."

His head is filled with too many things. Memories of Matt. Matt and Grace. His mom and dad. Guilt, so, so much guilt. Steve and almost dying so, so many times. Bloody, bleeding, broken Steve.

The medication is making him drowsy and floaty, but it's not enough to knock him out and thoughts and images of the past few years, months, weeks, days, keep drifting in and out of his head.

The room they're in is tiny, pretty much two thin beds and a tiny table between them. Guest quarters on the base, they call it. More like a closet.

He and Matt lived in a closet. Or, not exactly, but this place reminds him of the small room he and Matty shared back home. Small enough they could whisper softly to one another for hours into the night without their parents hearing.

"Try and sleep. Let the medication work."

His fingers curl tightly around the blanket and he chokes out, "I…can't," followed by a sob and damn. He hadn't meant to do that.

The bed dips then and Steve is there, sitting next to him. One hand is softly cupping his face and the other starts rubbing gently over his chest and he doesn't want this, doesn't want to feel any of this and then can't stop crying until he just can't feel any more.

He's drifting, sinking. Exhausted, drained and nearly lifeless. His eyes close and the world and Steve's soft words slip away, and the last thing he remembers before fading to black is feeling the memory of Steve's lips trace lightly over his own.

**

It doesn't surprise Danny that Steve tracked him down after his flight landed. Doesn't surprise him at all.

He has no idea how long they both sit on that wall. Watching the waves.

**

Their anniversary. Four years. He's lost count. 

His and Steve's anniversary has come and gone, he's sure, and given the jumble of everything inside his head after these past weeks, months, whatever, he doesn’t even know exactly when it might have been anymore. So much has happened since that day in the therapist's office that it seems eons ago.

So much death and suffering and god…just so much.

Steve's asleep. His face is swollen, he's bruised and battered and it hurts to see him this way. Hurts that Danny's actually becoming numb to seeing Steve so beaten and broken. Christ, Steve even thought his father was still alive; what the hell did Wo Fat do to him in that hellhole?

Steve twitches and moans from time to time, even through whatever medication they have running into him, and every time he does, Danny flinches with him.

His head is pounding. So is his heart.

It's been almost twenty-four hours since they found Steve, and the docs say Steve will be okay, even given everything that was injected into him, done to him, he'll come out of this okay. He always does, Danny thinks. Then, if all looks good and he fares well, he'll be released in a day or two.

Danny sits by the bed on one of the godawful pullout chair-beds they have for overnight stays and continues his vigil. That's what he's doing, sitting a vigil.

Vigil, what a weird sounding word. Vigil. Vigil.

Steve groans softly and Danny's eyes shoot to his face. He watches him. That's what he does. Watch Steve. Always watching Steve. How many times has he been here? How many times has he found himself sitting in a hospital room, watching Steve? 

Too many.

The magazine pages in his hand are just a blur and he tosses it aside, not about to reread that same paragraph for the third time. 

He feels crushed. Worn. Old.

Sad. Just so sad. Sad about their anniversary. Sad they've had one terrible thing happen after another. Sad that Steve's lost his father. Again, in a way. His mother, again and again and again. Sad that Steve's lost Catherine, no matter who she was to him. Is to him. No, he thinks. Was. Was to him. The look on Steve's face definitely says whatever was there between him and Catherine has changed…and in a way, that makes him sad as well.

Sad about Matt. God, Matt.

He looks at Steve looking like so much broken road. 

Sighs and rubs both hands over his face, exhales slowly between his fingers before reaching down to pick up the magazine he tossed. Opens it back to the same article he hasn’t read, and slouches down into the chair he's not leaving.

Starts again to read and not register the words, all the while glancing over at Steve.

He's not going anywhere. He's just going to sit here and read and watch Steve heal.

It's what he does.

**

"Oh, god, that’s…that's _so_ good." Best pizza Danny's had since moving from the land of the best pizza anywhere, and he closes his eyes and lets the mozzarella ooze all over the inside of his mouth. "So, so good."

There's a laugh and he looks up to find Kono pretty much beaming a high wattage shit-eating grin his way. 

"What?"

She smiles, nodding toward him. "You. and that. Sounds like you're having a relationship with it—and kind of a naughty relationship at that."

Danny chuckles, it is kind of true. "Maybe I am. Maybe it's just that good. Maybe I haven't had anything this good in my mouth since—" and then just stops, about biting his tongue off when what he said really registers and he sure isn't about to blurt out what he is so _not_ going to blurt out. Cannot go there.

Of course now Kono is almost howling with laughter. He swears she even snorts as she gives him a nudge with her foot. "Okay, okay," she says, still grinning wildly, "You gotta finish that sentence. Since—since when?"

Now he's laughing, too. It's infectious. "No. Forget it. There is no way in hell I would be divulging anything that can be used against me in a court of—"

"What's so funny?"

Steve. How is it that guy can always sense the most inopportune moment to show up? For that matter, how is it seeing Steve show up can still make Danny catch his breath. "Pizza."

Chin appears behind Steve, phone in hand and he's studying the screen as he follows into the room. "Pizza is funny?"

"Orgasmic, actually," Kono says in a low, sultry tone that Danny can only describe as 'gooey' and that about makes him spew iced tea everywhere. She's leaning back in her chair, looking up at Chin and Steve. "For Danny, anyway, if you really want to know."

Which has Chin backing right back out the door. "Ah, no. I really don't."

Steve, though, blurts out, "I want to know!" and shoots a look right to him and he's got that idiotically charming grin that makes him look like a maniac and that's it. Danny's had enough.

"Okay," he says, claps his hands, grabs his tea in one hand and an enormous slice of sausage and pepper in the other and heads for the door. "I'm out. Back to work." Edges around Steve who so very predictably doesn't budge even an inch to give him room enough to pass through the door.

He tries not to spill anything, juggling drink and pizza while squeezing past, shouldering his way against Steve's chest and trying to hold his breath because he really, really doesn't want to inhale even a threadbare wisp of Steve-scent, and then finds himself inhaling deeply, anyway, when Steve leans down and whispers in some weird, low, growly voice that absolutely does not incite Danny's neck hairs to stand on end. "That's quite a lot you got there—let me know if you need a hand or anything, D."

What the hell? Could that have been anymore suggestive? Steve's just standing there grinning, filling the doorway with his Steve-ness and that is it. Danny shoves his finger into Steve's chest, knowing how very much the man loves that move, and snaps out, "You. Me. We need to talk."

"Okay," Steve agrees, then pushes Danny's finger away, "and put that thing away before I take you to your knees. Look, you got pizza sauce on my shirt."

**

They don't get to talk, though, because a split second after starting for Danny's office, Steve's phone rings, and the man's been ensconced in his own office talking to the Governor ever since.

Sitting at his desk, the pizza's now long congealed into an utterly gross mangle of mozz, sauce, and what are now looking like curled dead worms, and Danny can't concentrate. Can't focus. Can't work.

He's lost his appetite.

Chicken-shit. That's exactly what he is. All he has to do is get back on track and pin Steve down—and oh, so not thinking too hard about that catchy, little phrase—and ask Steve flat out how he feels. 

Right? If middle-schoolers can manage the whole 'do you like me/I like you' thing, then for god's sake, what the hell is wrong with him?

Okay, yes, Steve's his boss. Yes, he's a man—and ooh, big revelation there, Williams. You like men. You like a man—that man. Haven't thought along those hard planes of muscle in quite a while, have you?

Is there something between them? _Is there?_ Or has he just lost his mind over the past several weeks. Months. Years.

Has it been years? Has it? Has he been pining for that long?

Throws a pen down and watches it do a slide and roll off the other side.

What about that kiss, Steve? 

What about knowing the exact time—the exact count of days that have passed since the day they met and actually being able to recite them at will. Who does that?

What about that Steve? 

What about that?

**

They never do get to that talk, and then Tuesday happens.

He's never loved a Tuesday. Never been a fan.

It's just one of those 'just get through it and let's move on' days of the week. Not the first day of the week, not the middle, not the end of the week. Even Thursday has the luxury of being the day before Friday. Nobody ever hated a Thursday.

But Tuesday. Never a day to look forward to. Especially when bullets are flying.

A bullet whizzes somewhere over his head. Close enough he swears he can actually hear it whiff as it parts the air and then goes slamming into something somewhere else, hopefully not any sort of something that breathes.

Then it gets quiet. Too quiet, and he leans out a little from around his cover to find Steve and where the hell has Steve gone off to, anyway? Throws out a hushed, "Hey!"

"What?"

"You still here?"

"Seriously?"

Whatever. Okay. Stupid question. He's allowed to have one given the circumstances. Steve's voice is coming from somewhere nearby but not where he'd started out when all hell broke loose. "I just was making sure you hadn't run off to do something, you know, stupid."

"When do I ever do anything stupid?"

Danny can hear the indignation in Steve's voice and he half laughs out. "Do you want me to list events alphabetically or by date and time?"

"Danny—"

A sudden blast of rapid gunfire drowns out whatever Steve was saying and Danny ducks down in back of the stacked crates he's crouching behind. Steve is somewhere to his right, and he's about to edge around again when he hears a whole lot of crashing around coming from somewhere followed by more gunfire followed by a few single shots, and then nothing. Quiet.

Too quiet. Eerie quiet, then, "Steve? Danny?"

"Here!" he calls out and clearly Chin and Kono, along with hopefully an enormous backup of Honolulu's finest, have arrived. He shifts from behind the crates to see just that then calls out to Steve when he doesn't hear him say anything. "Steve?"

"Here, I'm here."

Oh, sounding so not okay, and Danny feels it in his gut even before racing to where he thinks Steve is located. "Here, where? Where are you?"

"Up here. I'm okay."

"Up?" He looks around and catches the wave of a hand from atop another stack of crates and when did Steve get up there? And why isn't he coming down?

Turns to Chin and Kono. "You go help secure whoever's still breathing on the bad guy side. I'll see to Captain America up there. Jesus," Danny says, already feeling a mix of panic and anger because he knows, just knows Steve's gone and done something stupid and is most definitely not okay.

"Swear to god, Steve, what did you—" Wrestles his way to the top of the crates…and there's blood. Of course there's blood.

Steve's half reclined, pushing his now wadded up shirt against what looks to be quite the bloody mess low on his right hip. It's almost the same spot as Danny's scar from the time he got skewered by the rebar in the building explosion so many months ago.

Steve issues up a quick, "It's not bad, really."

Their eyes meet and Danny blows out his breath. "You're working on giving me an ulcer, you do know this, right? I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't some plot you're hatching to get rid of me."

"Never," Steve replies and Danny bats away Steve's hands—very bloody hands—and pushes down harder on the shirt. Steve groans softly and, in a way, Danny's glad to hear it.

"Kono, get EMS here," he tells her. "Up here. Steve's shot."

"Got it," she replies. Then, "How…is he?"

He's staring straight at Steve as he answers. "He'll be okay if he just stays still until they get here to assess him."

"I'm okay now." 

Danny rolls his eyes. "You are not okay. You have a bullet in you."

"No," Steve says and it looks like he's grinning…almost. No, not grinning. Smirking. "No, I have a graze from a ricochet in me. A furrow. No bullet. It took out a chunk of skin but didn’t go in." He grabs Danny's wrist. "Really. I'm okay."

Danny doesn’t know what sort of expression must be on his face for Steve to throw 'Sincerely Earnest' face at him, and a part of Danny wants to punch him for scaring the shit out of him yet again, and he tells him firmly, "No, you're not okay. You've been shot. You are bleeding. You are going into shock."

"I'm not going into shock."

"Okay, well then, I'm going into shock from seeing you shot yet again, how 'bout that?" 

He shifts his weight on the shirt, easing up then pressing down onto it again. There's blood on both his hands now, and Christ, how many times has he been in this position? So many times he's seen Steve bloody. So many times. 

Steve's hand remains wrapped around his wrist and Danny wonders which of them is calming the other most.

"Danny. I'm okay, really. A few stitches, I'll be fine."

This time when he looks at Steve, their eyes lock. 

"Really, D. I'm good." Steve lets go of his wrist to place his hand on his shoulder, sliding it to then wrap around his neck. "I'm good, I swear. Bad guys are down. I'm good, you're good. I think we're good."

Heard this before. Oh, yeah. Danny's heard these exact words before. Between the shooting and his worry and seeing the blood on Steve yet again, the past few months of nothing but shit for both of them and the not knowing what the hell is going on between them anymore, he just blurts out, "I hate you. I really do."

Steve sucks in a slight breath, Danny hears it and while it could be from the pain of the wound, it could also be from something else.

"No. I know you love me," Steve counters. "You love me."

"What?" Steve's eyes are drilling a hole through him, and there's a measure of rising panic that's already half choking him from having Steve's blood on his hands yet again.. Quite frankly, he's getting a little annoyed about the whole thing. "I what?"

"You love me, and I love you, too"

"No." Danny shakes his head, shifting his weight back onto the shirt and wound. "No, you don't get to do this. I'm not doing this. Not anymore. You don't love me. If you loved me, you wouldn't keep doing…" he waves a hand over the mess of Steve's hip. "This." Folds the shirt and presses it down again, eliciting a small chirp of reaction from Steve. Glad to hear it. Steve's pain is a nice complement to the pain Danny is feeling on the inside.

"If you loved me," he continues, eyes glued to his hands and he wants this all out now because he wasn't kidding that Steve is giving him an ulcer, goddamnit, and he's not even talking about this particular injury or this particular time. "If you loved me, you'd have explained that kiss to me."

Now Steve looks confused. "What?"

"Okay, stop. No 'whats'." Okay, he is getting angry now, yeah. All this free and easy throwing of these 'I love you's' and that kiss, damn it, and fuck it all, he has had enough. "Yeah. You kissed me. Out of the blue. And I know we were in a unique life or death situation at the time but—"

"No life or death, I knew I'd get you out of there—"

Danny's glaring now. He can't seem to help it. "Shut up. Just stop. I get we were in a crazy place and a crazier situation, but still—you kissed me. You didn't have to kiss me. You shouldn't have."

Steve's staring outright at him, brows drawn, and he says, flatly, "You kissed me back."

"I kissed—yes, okay. Yes, I did. I will confess to having been in some degree of shock from hearing you say what you said and all and the bomb and collapse and seeing my own blood, never a sight I'm in love with, mind you, then that did happen. I returned a kiss with a kiss, I mean, and I…and it was…" Oh, lord, how long has he been staring at Steve's mouth without realizing? Has to literally shake himself to break his sightline. "You started it all with that 'I love you' that I was woefully ill prepared to hear."

"Uh-huh. Woefully. And I had to force you to say it back."

"Not force. No force. I didn't say it right away because—" Wait, he thinks. Hold on. This is not exactly the direction he'd been steering this conversation.

Steve's sitting military straight. Jaw tight and arms crossed and looking very Lieutenant Commander right now. "Because? Go on…"

Backpedaling, and damn if Steve doesn't do this every time—corner him so what he's saying comes out, well, not exactly wrong but mostly kind of twisted from his initial intent. He stares at Steve who's kind of staring back in a fairly 'no-holds-barred' way. Wonders if this is what it's like to be facing the SEAL within. 

"Danny?"

Blinks. Okay, get it together, Williams. "No, Steve. Hold on. You knew our exact anniversary. No, not even just the date, which I'm not even sure of, you knew the actual daily countdown, for shit's sake. Why? I need to know. Why do you have that memorized?"

Indignant. Steve is looking indignant. "Why do you care? Not like you even wanted or bothered to acknowledge it."

"Oh, forgive me. I was a bit busy, I'm pretty sure. Between my brother and then you almost dying—twice, I might add—"

Steve's now frowing. "No. I mean, yes, I'm sorry about Matt, you know this and I will never regret being with you throughout, but no, Danny. No. Our four-year anniversary came and went and you just didn't give a shit. Worse, even. You threw it away like so much garbage."

"What?" Is he serious? "What the hell are you talking about? You didn't acknowledge it, I would've remembered." He would have, too. "I would have been all over that, so don’t give me this shit."

Now Steve's looking angry. "Danny. I tried, okay? You didn't care."

Clueless. He's completely clueless, and is wracking his brain trying to find some inkling. "What are you talking about?"

Now Steve's settled back, looking tired. and worn out. "What's the thing for a four year anniversary, Danny?"

Thing? "What thing?"

"Fruit. And flowers, is the thing. For four years."

Fruit and… "Wait. That was…you mean in my office that time? Amber sent those."

"No. I sent those."

"You sent those?"

A nod, and then Steve's eyes close and he breathes out. "Yeah, Danno. I sent you fruit and flowers as a surprise gift for our anniversary. Then when you said it meant nothing and packed them up to get rid of them, I didn't know what to say."

"I didn't know, Steve. I thought Amber—"

Steve's eyes open and Danny can see hurt there. "There was a card, Danny. I wrote a message in it."

He's shakes his head because no. That's not right. "No, it wasn’t from you. It said, _Forever you and me, side by side. Wouldn't have had it any other way._ that was Amber and—"

"It said," Steve interrupts, " _Four years. You and me. Side by side. Wouldn't have had it any other way_ , and then I wrote I love you. That is what it said."

Did it? Had he read it wrong? He'd read it so quickly, wanting to get rid of it all after feeling fairly guilty about breaking it off with Amber. "It did?"

"You called it nothing. Said it was nothing you wanted."

"Oh." This can't be happening. "I didn't know. I thought—honest, Steve. I thought it was from Amber, like a thank you kind of thing after we broke up."

Steve chuffs a laugh. "Yeah, because that's what women do, send their exes a flower basket after a break-up. Geeze, Danny. Really?"

His head and heart are racing. "I guess I read it wrong."

"I guess you did. You read it very wrong."

"Well, that's not entirely my fault. Your handwriting is terrible."

Steve laughs outright then, and closes his eyes. "Maybe you need glasses."

Danny shifts to sit down next to him, hands refolding the shirt to press it again against the wound. "No," he says, "I think everything's coming in quite a bit clearer now." Hopes like hell he's reading this right.

There are voices and noises getting nearer, and Kono's voice calls up, "EMT's are here, Danny," then Steve turns toward him looking so very tired. "They're coming up."

Danny nods. "Yeah. I guess help is coming." He knocks his head lightly to Steve's. "Hey. I'm really sorry. Really. I thought—I thought maybe you changed your mind or something about our anniversary, and we were going through so much over those weeks and then I thought maybe I…that maybe I was reading this all wrong. You and me—you and I, I mean. And that kiss and I wasn't sure what that meant, I mean, I was hoping, but then it's, well, I wasn't sure—"

"Danny," Steve cuts in, "If I kissed you again now, would it get you to stop talking? 'Cause I'm getting kind of woozy here, and it's getting a little hard to follow along."

There's a warmth filling his heart that, after the underlining uncertainty that's been living there all these months, is a welcome and exciting feeling. "Well, how hard would it be to follow if I kissed you first?"

They share a long look before Steve says, "I think I could manage to follow that along before I pass out entirely."

Then there's that cover-model smile, Danny leans down and they're tongue to tongue, breaking apart just a split-fraction before the first paramedic's face appears from below. He laces his fingers with Steve's and holds on, feeling Steve doing the same. Who knew a Tuesday could turn out like this?

The guy gets to his feet, picks up his kit and makes his way over. "How we doin' over here?" he asks.

Danny grins, shares a look with Steve and says as he squeezes Steve's hand, "I think we're good."

End.


End file.
